


Everyone Lies, So Lie With Me

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blood, Drinking, F/M, Fights, More angst than smut, Mutual Friends, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, One Night Stands, Overworking, Rough Sex, Scratching, fighting leads to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "You remember when things were easy, back when you were just a model manager and a certain pale-skinned, brown-haired man wasn't yet a part of your life. Your days were routine and predictable, devoid of spontaneity and unforeseen complications. Your days were practical and you were professional and things were...boring." You spend the night with Vanderwood after drinking too much, things get complicated in the morning, and even messier by the afternoon. Though, it's not all bad.
Relationships: Vanderwood/Main Character (Mystic Messenger)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 56





	Everyone Lies, So Lie With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rensui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rensui/gifts).



You weren't looking for conversation and all you really wanted was to get some sleep.

You realize, later, as you're sitting at the small circular table in the corner of your kitchen that you should have paid more attention to the subtle shift in the atmosphere rather than the flock of thoughts that beat their wings around inside of your head. But as sayings go, hindsight is 20/20 and there's nothing left for you to do during this perfect storm other than ride out the waves when they come to sweep you away.

The only problem with that is, you don't know which way the wind is blowing and you're already long lost at sea.

You remember when things were easy, back when you were just a model manager and a certain pale-skinned, brown-haired man wasn't yet a part of your life. Your days were routine and predictable, devoid of spontaneity and unforeseen complications. Your days were practical and you were professional and things were... _boring_.

You push a mug of untouched coffee away from you and press your folded arms against the table. You exhale a sigh of defeat and try to wrap your head around what it is that you want. You curse Vanderwood for coming into your life like he had any right to, for sliding into the monotony of your daily ritual like the dates printed on the calendar that hangs on your bedroom wall. You lower your forehead down against your arms and bury your face in the cotton warmth of your baggy sweater.

“You look about as good as I feel.”

You start at the sound of Vanderwood's voice and pull yourself upright so quickly that you nearly fall out of your chair in alarm.

“What are you doing here?” you ask him, your tone scraping the edges of certain sharpness that comes with surprise.

“You don't remember?” Vanderwood says and pours himself a cup of coffee. He takes a sip of the still-hot beverage without pause and makes his way over to the table. “I'm not all that surprised. You were pretty wasted last night.”

“I was not _wasted_ ,” you rebuke bitterly. “And I'm just surprised to see that you spent the night. Where did you sleep?” You curl your fingers around your abandoned mug of coffee and slide it back toward you in the interest of having something to hold onto. You look down into the murky liquid and try to forget the hard lines and chiseled contours of Vanderwood's near-bare frame.

“In the spare bedroom, right where you left me.” Vanderwood arches an eyebrow and takes another sip of coffee. “You honestly don't remember anything about last night?” His voice is steady and his tone is even but there's a note of speculation in the question.

“I was really worn out last night. I just remember falling into bed and going to sleep. I've been putting in a lot of hours at the studio and with all of the new agents and the girls and their go-sees, I guess I've just–” You wave a dismissive hand in lieu of speech and lift your gaze to find Vanderwood staring back at you, his eyes as impenetrable as his expression is inscrutable.

“You don't remember the real reason why you were so worn out last night—I'm offended.” Vanderwood downs the rest of his coffee and slides out of the chair with the grace of a feline. You take note of his leopard-printed boxers and hold back a smile as he strides over to the kitchen counter. You realize that he already knows your place almost as well as you do and it leaves a strange taste in the back of your throat. He grabs a pack of Winston's and taps out a single cigarette before sliding a black Zippo off the counter and into his hand.

You realize that you're staring and quickly turn your attention back to the mug nestled between your hands. You can hear Vanderwood moving across the kitchen and when you dare to lift your gaze, he's sliding open the screen door that leads to a small backyard patio. He lights the cigarette, now pressed between his lips, and exhales a breath of smoke that catches on the breeze and quickly turns translucent.

It takes until this moment for you to recognize the weight of Vanderwood's words, and you're stricken by their clarity as an animated image takes over the shape of your memories. “Oh no,” you whisper, unaware that you've even spoken until Vanderwood chuckles and turns to face you, his back pressed against the framework of the door.

“Now you're starting to remember,” he says, seeming far too pleased with himself.

“We didn't...tell me that we didn't,” you plead, groaning in defeat before Vanderwood even has a chance to reply.

Vanderwood drags the edge of his thumbnail over the bottom line of his mouth before smoothing moisture back into his lips. He flicks a tower of ash from the end of his cigarette and takes a final drag before crushing the cherry between his fingers. “Are you asking me to lie to you, or are you just that determined to believe that nothing happened?”

Vanderwood closes the door and steps back into the kitchen, his bare feet silent against the resistance of the cool floor. “If you do want to forget, I suggest you start by taking a shower.”

You lift your head and run a hand over the wispy strands of hair that have fallen free from the messy bun at the crown of your head. You exhale a long sigh then worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “How did this happen? Yesterday we were at Saeyoung's and you were picking up his place and” –you pull yourself into standing and begin pacing over the threshold between the kitchen and living room– “and I was helping you with the laundry.” You tug the front of your sweater away from your chest absentmindedly as you ambulate between rooms. “Then later I was cooking and you were still cleaning and...and...” you repeat, trying to piece together the bygone fragments of foretime.

“And before we were finished we realized that we were alone and the twins had disappeared with their partners.” Vanderwood intercepts your pacing and closes his hands on your shoulders to still your measured motion. “We shared a drink and you invited me back to your place. Then one drink turned into two and two turned into three and eventually, one thing led to another. You see where I'm going with this, don't you?”

“Don't patronize me,” you tell him. “I might not have the full picture yet but I'm not stupid.” You reach up and remove his hands from your shoulders with more force than strictly necessary.

“I know you're not stupid. I could never be with someone who lacked intellect, not even for a one-night stand.”

You turn away from him but you can feel his gaze dragging heat down the length of your spine.

“Is that what this was? A one-night stand?” You dig your fingernails into the thick knit of your sweater and try to calm the shiver that spreads through the marrow of your bones. You wish you had thought to put on pants because your legs are shaky and cold and you feel far too exposed considering the weight of the current situation.

“What else would it be?” Vanderwood asks, and the simpleness of the question cuts deeper than you could have planned for even if you had known it was coming. “You and I know that relationships aren't meant for people like us. Work comes first. Relationships only get in the way of that.”

“And sex doesn't?” You turn around to face him, your eyes narrowed and your lips pressing into a thin line. “You truly think that this doesn't change anything?”

Vanderwood tilts his head slightly and stares at you directly, his gaze acute and knife-like. “Why should it have to? We got drunk and we spent the night fucking. I learned that you can't hold your liquor for shit and you learned that I have a penchant for hands. We had fun. Now we go back to living our lives as usual; we fall back into our same old routines.”

“What if I don't want to?” you ask, the question breaking past your lips before you can call it back. “What if I'm tired of living each day on repeat?”

Vanderwood looks taken aback but the expression is fleeting and his shoulders are just as quickly lifting in the most casual of shrugs. “Then I guess that's something you'll have to figure out on your own.”

“And if I don't want to do that either?” You don't know where this emotion is coming from and it's as terrifying as it is shocking, and you wish so badly that you could stop it from spilling out into the open. “What if I don't want to do it alone?”

Vanderwood's eyes shift and the dark of his pupils seem to spill over the light of his irises as a storm chases across his gaze. “Why are you asking me all of this?”

“I don't know. I don't know _why_ but it feels like I should.” You hug your arms over your chest and stare at Vanderwood fixedly. “You've seen me at my worst and you still accepted me. I'm ashamed and embarrassed but for some reason, I feel like I should be happy and I don't know why. I don't understand any of this.”

“You're getting too emotional,” Vanderwood tells you, cool and flat. “Just take it for what it was: a night of pleasure. Nothing more.”

“What if it was more than that for me?” Your whole world seems out of focus but when you try to blink it back to clarity it only tips sideways. “What if I have feelings for you?”

“What?” Vanderwood snaps, and even without the sharpness of his tone, it's plain to see that he's getting irritated. “We were drunk. _You_ were drunk.”

“I'm not drunk now,” you bite back. “Don't do that. Don't act like I'm making all of this up because I wasn't clear-headed last night.”

“Fine, but it doesn't matter because you _can't_ have feelings for me. You don't even know me.” Vanderwood takes several steps in the direction of the hallway but you reach out and catch him by the wrist.

“You have no right to tell me what I can and can't feel, and in regards to knowing you, we've spent almost every day over the past six months in each other's company. You might like to believe that you're capable of shutting everyone out but you've been different with me.” You pause and focus on the twitch of his pulse, thrumming beneath your fingertips. You swallow the fear that's forming into a lump in the dark of your throat and take a leap that you anticipate has nothing but tragedy waiting for you at the bottom. “Do you honestly feel nothing for me?”

“It wouldn't matter if I did because nothing would come of it. Now let me go. I need to get dressed.” Vanderwood makes to pull free of your grip but you only tighten your hold. “____, I've already spent too much time here. Don't make this harder on yourself.”

“Don't make this about me. Don't _pity_ me,” you vent as you violently release your grip and shove at Vanderwood's arm.

“What do you want from me? Huh?” Vanderwood closes the space between you in a single step and presses his fingers in against your arms hard enough to bruise. “Do you want to stroll down busy streets holding hands and go out to dinner and the movies? Is that what you want? Do you want flowers and chocolate and romance? I'm a _criminal_. I will _never_ give you any of that. I'm not capable of it. All I can offer you is danger and risk and violence. I'm not the kind of person you want to be in a relationship with.”

You stare up at Vanderwood, silent for a moment, then you shove him away from you with all the strength you can muster. “You don't know what I want. All you know is what you've placed on baseless assumptions. You don't know me any better than you think I know you. But that's the difference. I've taken the time to learn about you. I've studied you. You might be a criminal but you're not a bad person.”

Vanderwood laughs and the sound is so hollow you can almost see the hole shot through its center. “You think that I haven't studied you? That's part of my _job—o_ ne of the basics. If you're so familiar with me you should know that I've pored over all there is to know about you—I know _everything_ about you.” Vanderwood steps forward and there's something dangerous swamping the corners of his gaze. “If you knew me, you wouldn't be able to stand here and say that I'm not a bad person. Not unless you're as twisted as I am.”

“What if I am?” you ask, standing a little taller as if you can add height to your defense.

“You're not,” is all he says, callous and low.

“Right, and you're not a bad person,” you incite.

“I've killed people!” Vanderwood shouts and shoves you so hard you barely manage to catch yourself before falling. You look down briefly and notice the bruises mottling the tops of your thighs but you're too heated to pay them any mind. You lunge forward and attempt to push Vanderwood in retaliation but he catches your wrists in his hands. It's not an easy feat but you manage to break free and as soon as you do, you draw back your hand and slap him so hard the contact burns through your palm.

You take a single step back but before you can even process the reason for your shock, Vanderwood emulates your attack. Warmth creeps into your skin and the sharp sting of harsh contact radiates through your cheek. You reach up and drag your fingers over the ache reflexively, your eyes pinned on Vanderwood who looks prepared for a fight.

“Well, what's it gonna be?” Vanderwood asks, his timbre dragging low over the beginnings of a challenge. “Are we going to continue playing this game or are you going to end it here?”

“What do you think?” is your reply, just as charged and weighty with daring provocation as Vanderwood's own.

“I think it would be wise of you to call it a day and put an end to this but I know you won't.” Vanderwood's mouth curves into a slanted smile as he drops his hips a fraction and braces himself for your next attack. “Come on, ____. Let's get this over with.”

You blink once and try to make sense of the raging chaos that's waging a war inside your mind, but you're moving on autopilot and in the direction of the only thing you can see clearly. You don't remember jumping but your feet leave the solid foundation of the floor and you're suddenly hanging in suspension. You can feel heat coming off of Vanderwood in waves and the familiar press of his fingers against your skin, and when he slams you up against the wall everything becomes clear and the nebulous tension between you shatters into transparency.

Vanderwood fits his lips against your own and you're already stealing the breath from his lungs by the time you're tangling your fingers in his hair. He tastes like coffee and nicotine and smoke and it's everything that you never knew you needed. His hands are on your hips and his teeth are set firmly against your lip and you can taste blood but it's not as bitter as you remember.

But things are not always as we remember them, and after trading daylight for a collection of new memories you realize that the way you perceive the events that happen in your life is contingent on how you feel at that moment.

You press your ear to Vanderwood's chest and listen to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he idly strokes your hair. You're tangled together in the sheets and there's a trace of sex still hanging heavy in the air. Your body aches in the places Vanderwood played and there's red staining the sheets from the lines you drew down his back. Your lips are chapped and your thighs are sticky and the sheets are damp with sweat, and you know that you should probably shower but you're listless and languid and too drunk on satisfaction to move.

You close your eyes and continue to listen to the lullaby playing through a tattoo on Vanderwood's chest. His fingers dance across your scalp and through the fall of your hair, and even though there are more obstacles to fight through now than there ever were, everything feels as it should.

_Alive_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
